


Too Fucking Nice

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Bondage, D/s, Erotica, F/M, Talk of discipline, Talk of submissive Tom, dominant Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC watches Tom's progression through SDCC 2015 and decides he's too fucking nice, and that she's going to call him on it when he gets back to their hotel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Fucking Nice

**Author's Note:**

> This is SDCC 2015!Tom, in those lovely gray jeans with the jacket, but I put him in a dress shirt because I wanted him to be able to roll up his sleeves.
> 
> The pic in the story is my horrible edit, from this [source](http://itsallaboutthepace.tumblr.com/post/123827002494/lets-start-the-apocalypse).

I heard the key in the door of our hotel suite, and positioned myself accordingly, leaning back against the wall so that I'd be the first thing he saw, back arched, unnaturally tall in eight inch red, patent leather ballet heels that I knew would be the first thing he commanded me to take off, but I wanted them to complete the full effect of the outfit.

And to lend me a bit of the dominant attitude I more often than not found it hard to summon when I was around him.

Even though Tom wasn't much for lingerie - he preferred me naked - and I was expressly not allowed to wear anything that denied him access to my lady parts, I had still gone all out, wearing a tight, lacy red push-up bra that the girls were nearly falling out of, with a matching garter belt and pretty lace stockings - he hated fishnet and so did I. My makeup was perfect - dramatic and sultry, red finger and toenails completing the vampish look, but my hair was in a contrastingly romantic updo, with soft strands of curls left at my neck, around which was the filigreed gold and ruby necklace he'd bought me for the anniversary of the first time we fucked ourselves silly, as well as the matching earrings dangling from my earlobes I'd just gotten for the second anniversary of that auspicious night.

And day.

And night.

And day.

As soon as he saw me he stopped and dropped the key card right where he was, not even bothering to try to put it on the table by the door. He had his priorities straight, and neatness didn't count once his eyes had landed on me.

Of course he had been smiling when he came through the door, but that faded immediately into a hard look I was altogether too familiar with. 

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/Too%20Fucking%20Nice%203_zpsuaspynzb.jpg.html)

I watched him cross his arms over his chest and lean back against the door expectantly.

No words of praise, no encouragement, not even an exclamation of surprise at the sight of me all dolled up like this, which, in itself, was indeed quite unusual.

Instead, he took it as his due.

As I'd known he would.

His eyes locked with mine, he pointed to a spot directly in front of him. I knew what he meant, and I reveled in it as proof that I was getting to him, no matter how annoyingly calm, cool and collected he appeared. There was further evidence of how I disturbed him at the front of those gray jeans - the ones I really hadn't wanted to send him out of our hotel room in this morning. They were entirely too obscene, I'd said, and I can tell what religion you're not! 

He had proceeded to bend me back over his arm and kissed the breath out of me, leaving a trail of wet, hot kisses down the center of my tummy that had the core of me melting even worse than usual, before leaving with a last, loud slurp at my navel. And as he slipped through the door he looked back at me, eyes at half mast, with a sly wink, and rumbled huskily, "I know, darling."

But I wasn't going to be the pushover I usually was for him this time.

. . . At least not yet.

So, at his silent command, I bravely drawled, "No, I don't think so."

His only response at my rebellion - besides the way I could see his dick jerk violently behind his zipper, 'cause he loved it when I fought him, or tried to, rather - was one raised eyebrow.

"You see, I have discovered what a fraud you are, Thomas William, and I am here to call you on it." I held up my iPad, and it was showing random clips from the appearances he had just made at SDCC - the Crimson Peak panel and all of the other interviews. The other eyebrow was up, but he still hadn't moved a muscle otherwise. Well, except for his eyes, which were roving hungrily up and down my body, lighting and lingering at the most interesting places, that alone nearly enough to cause me to forget what I was doing without him ever having touched me.

"Just look at you! I've been following your every move on the Internet. Tumblr and Twitter have you lojacked, I swear. And you are just _too fucking nice!_ Who _is_ this person? You come off to everyone else - your coworkers, other actors, directors, interviewers, and of course your ardent fans - as someone who is just sooooooo good," I made the last two words drip with sarcasm as I took a few careful steps towards him, still holding the tablet up to him so that he could see himself. "And there you are, actually _being_ all scrupulously polite and charming and humble and sweet and kind. Buddah wouldn't melt Tom Hiddleston's mouth, no sir." I glared at him, putting my hand on my hip. "I hope you're happy, Thomas. You _do_ realize that you gave everyone who saw you there diabetes?"

That got me a soft snort, but no smile.

I turned the iPad back to me and went to a particular bookmark, then pointed it back towards him. "And this - this in particular is absolutely out _rageous_." It was the Nerdist podcast, specifically the point where they were talking about his ass. "There you are, being all charmingly bashful and embarrassed. I think you're even blushing, which is something I didn't even think you were capable of, based on my personal experiences with you. But you _can_ blush, and here's the proof." I'd gotten close enough that I was practically waving the iPad in front of his face now. "Then Guillermo told you to say 'fuck' and you said it - and, despite the fact that you immediately admit that that was _not_ the first time you'd said it - you still managed to make it _sound_ as if that was the very first time that syllable has ever passed . . . your . . . pristine . . . immaculate . . . virginal . . . lips."

Finally arriving in front of him, I allowed myself to touch him for the first time, the long, bright red nail of my index finger poking his chest with each word, and not gently, either.

There was very little that was ever gentle about us when we got together.

Oh, afterwards, perhaps, before he got hungry for me again - or vice versa - which was never very long.

With eight inches added to my usual five three height, I was almost eye to eye with him, which I knew he didn't like. 

He usually preferred to keep me at a disadvantage - preferrably several of them at the same time.

"They don't know you at all, do they, Thomas?" I accused, leaning into him a bit, my lips almost on his but not quite. He moved his arms suddenly then, startling me, and I thought he was going to grab me. I was wholly unable to suppress a noticeable flinch, biting my lip at his look of arrogant satisfaction when he merely put those enormous, elegant hands of his innocently into his pockets.

Bastard.

But they didn't remain there long. He'd just done it to prove to me that he could unnerve me any time he wanted to, and with the most innocuous of movements.

I leaned away from him again and almost over-balanced, and he didn't bother himself to try to help me. I knew that if I had been seriously in danger of falling, he would have caught me, but he would have made sure that I knew that he'd done it for his own reasons, and not out of any kind of gentlemanly tendencies he ever exhibited towards me. He just stood there and watched me with that intense, knowing stare that raised goose flesh and tightened nipples and every other sensitive area all over my body.

I almost lost the will to continue teasing him like this because of that look and what I knew it meant for me. But I managed find my feigned outrage and continue.

"They don't know what you _do_ to me when we're alone. They have no idea just how nasty and kinky you really are. Wouldn't they just die to see all the toys in our collection? I have to say it's pretty impressive - dildos, plugs, all the discipline implements, the strap on you don't want to like me to wear, the male chastity devices, and the clamps and ropes and nearly every possible piece of equipment available for the role of 'evil doctor' that you so love to play with me . . . but I think they'd all be most amazed by just how much stuff goes into that beautiful ass they were all talking about -" I could see his jaw twitching at my last words. Thomas had a submissive side that he didn’t much like to acknowledge.

But sometimes I wouldn't let him ignore it. Not often, mind you. Our relationship was about ninety-five percent dominated by him - but as much as he didn't like to admit it, we both liked that other five percent.

That was _not_ now, however, as much as I was trying to pull that persona off. I knew I was teasing the a jaguar, and that, at some point, he was going to run me down and devour me.

I sincerely hoped. 

As if to prove my point, in a flash, he bent lithely down to capture my left foot at the ankle, bringing it up high to rest on his stomach, forcing me to balance all of my weight mostly on the tips of my right toes as he deftly unlaced the boot and threw it away from us, then repeated the action with the other foot, all while glaring - down, finally - at me. 

When he was finished, Tom took his suit jacket off, dropping it to the floor, too, and, as he took a step forward - and I automatically took one back - he rolled up his sleeves, quickly and efficiently, without once taking his eyes off of me. Then, before I knew it, he reached down to pluck the two combs in my hair, making it fall in great waves around my shoulders and down my back, as he preferred.

Another big step forward, another, much smaller, one back.

My voice much more tremulous than it had been before, huskier, sexier, I began again nevertheless. "None of your star-struck fans could _begin_ to imagine the depraved things you make me do to you - or that you do to me - how you make me cry and beg and scream and moan - and even then you never stop punishing me. In fact," I bit my lip, "I think my reactions just make you discipline me that much harder - or fuck me harder."

I knew then, with a sinking feeling - especially as I felt the cream beginning to run between my legs - that I had hit the nail on the head with that one when I really hadn't though about whether I was right about it or not until just then.

Suddenly he reached out and plunged his hand between my jiggling breasts, fingers curling around the material of my bra and twisting, using that hold to jerk me forward so hard that I had to lean on him or fall on my face while he expertly removed the garment using nothing more than sheer, brute strength, cruelly crushing the tender flesh of my breasts against his knuckles as he did so.

I tried not to whimper and failed badly at it, then found myself shoved rudely away from him again, fighting the urge to turn tail and run, knowing he would give chase and catch me in only a stride or two, and then there would be even worse hell to pay for attempting to run from him.

I knew that from personal experience.

He moved forward again and I moved back, gulping hard, unable to tear my eyes away from his. And as the backs of my calves hit the end of the bed and I began to topple over, I realized several startling, unsettling things.

That he had never countermanded anything I'd said about him.

That, in fact, he hadn't said a word to me since he'd stepped through the door.

And he hadn't smiled - not once. I hadn't even seen the corners of his mouth go up a bit, like they sometimes did even when he was in an intense, brooding mood like this.

Nothing.

But before I had a chance to ponder those things any further, I realized that I hadn't fallen back onto the bed, as I expected to.

Instead, I was caught, this time by my garter belt, and hauled back up against him, the more tenuous hold of the belt replaced by a terribly strong arm which plastered me forcibly up against him.

And I wished for all I was worth that he wasn't smiling down at me _now_ like that. 

_Please, not like that._

As if he had no soul. 

No humanity at all.

And certainly no mercy whatsoever in his heart.

Hands that had no care as to whether or not the marked me cupped my hips and I was turned roughly, so that my essentially bare bottom was held firmly up against his rock hard front as I found my hands - and then my elbows - bound tightly behind me before some kind of fabric was shoved past my painted red lips and into my mouth, held there by a strip of black leather he had produced from his pocket, and, finally, as his head bent to my ear and he slipped a band of folded silk over my eyes and tied it in place, he rasped in that too proper accent of his, "And now I think it's about time for me to start _doing_ some of those kinky, depraved things to you again, don't you? Things I thought about doing to you the entire time I was being so disingenuously sweet and kind and charming. And when I blushed, it was because my mind was dwelling on these leather ties I had in one of my pockets the entire time, thinking about the many ways I was going to use them on you when I got back." He switched to my other ear to mention casually, "I had the gag and the blindfold with me, too, in my other pocket."

At that, he let go of me and I free-fell blindly forward onto my stomach - no gentle hands guiding me, no hope of help - onto the bed, as he quickly bound my ankles to opposite bed posts, knees lashed to the legs at the middle of the big bed, spreading me obscenely wide and leaving me completely helpless.

He joined me on the bed, and, again, his lips pressed to my ear, whispering so low and dark that it vibrated clean through my soul. "For your impertinent little performance, I am going to completely _wreck_ you, my darling. You are not going to see light or move unfettered or speak in anything but incoherent moans and whimpers until you can't remember what it's like to do any of those things of your own free will. The only thing you will care about is me, and what I'm going to do to you next - whether it'll be my fingers or my cock you'll feel fucking you or whether I'll lay another fiery track of the cane down across that pretty little ass of yours before I fuck _it,_ too."

I couldn't help but squeal - what I thought was loudly - but hardly any sound made it through the handkerchief or whatever it was that he'd put into my mouth.

"And afterwards, you are going to _thank_ me for it, and beg me for more." 

I felt him levering himself off the bed and squealed again in fear of what was coming.

"Whether you _want_ to or not."


End file.
